


THE BOWMAN

by Queenoftheuniverse



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Assassin's Creed, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gay Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mary is Moran, Minor Character Death, based loosely on Arrow, bit of arrowy deaths, kind of Assassins Creedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 10,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the two years he was "dead, and a whole year after, Sherlock has never thought to ask what John did to survive his absence, he was too busy surviving torture. Mycroft, however, knows perfectly well. He recruited John to become an assassin and clean up some of Moriarty's loose ends, including Moran, who Sherlock swears he killed in Budapest. </p><p>Add to that the sexual tension between John and Sherlock, both of whom assume the relationship can go nowhere despite the occasional filthy thoughts each man has for the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

THE BOWMAN

John cursed as he lost his balance trying to tie his shoe. Admittedly he was in a hurry, hungry, sleepy and badly in need of tea, but still it was embarrassing to fall over on his arse. Especially in front of the most elegant man in London, Sherlock fucking Holmes.

“Quite the gymnast John.” Was all Holmes said from his high horse, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m not bendy, unlike some!” John spat, struggling out of the octopus that was his half-on jacket to grunt and reach for his laces.

“I am sure you are adequate in some ventures.” Sherlock sniffed, turning in that fantastic fucking way he had, all tall and dramatic and coaty…

“I am assuming you mean sex and yes. No complaints.” John said, staggering to his feet and waiting a second until he got his balance.

“Pedestrian, John.” Sherlock sniffed to the hall he was already loping down. 

John hurried on behind, grinning. Yeah, he had it bad for this man. John Not Gay Watson loved Sherlock Married to my Work Holmes and nobody had to know but him. It was fine, it was all fine. Sometimes, though, John liked to tease the surprisingly ignorant-about-some-things Great Detective.

By the time they reached the crime scene John was put together. Jacketed, laced, hair finger-neatened in his devil-may-care way. His brain was now on the day ahead, a txt from Lestrade, a mysterious crime scene, he and Sherlock running the mean streets of London.

Sherlock leaped out of the cab and all but ran past the local beat police and up the stairs to the high-end flat. John paid the cabby and sauntered on behind, hands in his coat pockets. He knew he was there to reflect the genius’ light or whatever Sherlock called it, and he could do worse. He could do way worse. He had already done way worse…

Sherlock looked behind to make sure John was following. He found himself doing it more and more lately and deduced himself infatuated. He had no idea when this had happened, but John had become the very bedrock of his existence at some stage after he had come back from destroying Moriarty and is web. Before then, the time with John had been fun, and exhilarating, and he had never felt as close to someone before. Hell, he had jumped off a roof for him. But after time away, and the torture of course, he had never been as happy to see anyone in his life as when he had seen John at that restaurant…

Then the whole Mary thing had happened. John still refused to talk about it, or the fake baby…

“Sherlock, John, glad you could make it.” Greg Lestrade appeared, newly reinstated as Scotland Yard’s Detective Inspector. After the whole Sherlock being not-so-fake fiasco, Lestrade had had to fight hard to be taken seriously as a police officer again. Mycroft had helped, behind the scenes as he had a very huge and un-Iceman crush on the silver haired man. Nobody knew why The Government suddenly backed Greg’s application but who could argue with the PM? So Greg was back, Sherlock was back and John was back in their rightful places as it should be.

“Body is through here.” Greg went on, whirling and leading the way. There was, of course, a noted absence of Anderson. Since he had been “let go” due to his obsession with Holmes and retired to Wales to fly fish, the forensics had taken on another guy, a fine young forensic officer called Simon. And also absent was any searing remarks from Sally Donovan. The Yard had demoted her to beat cop again. In John O Groat’s. When she could be trusted not to run a personal vendetta she could maybe return to Detective work. Until then it was frozen sheep and stolen tractors.

When the trio came across the body they were stunned. Simon, in his blue paper jumpsuit and face mask was staring up at the dead man, stylus poised above his tablet. He was at a loss as to what to put first.

“Male, mid-thirties, worked for a bank downtown, lived on his own, one small dog recently deceased...” Sherlock started, to help Simon out.

“Oh…Sherlock, hi...” Simon jumped, and turned his big brown eyes to stare at Sherlock. Well, that was all that could be seen above his mask. He had quite a man crush on the great Sherlock Holmes. Platonic hero worship. John knew that feel, but he also wanted to know other feels, like Sherlock’s lips on his-

“Missing his shoes and in his second best suit…” Sherlock went on, stalking past Simon to look up to the wall where the dead guy hung. “Had just come home from work, had not even had time to remove his tie or drink the glass of wine on the coffee table.”

“His name is Walter Van Houston, he runs a bank in London, and this is his flat.” Lestrade said. Sherlock ignored him too, to stare intently at what had pinned the man, Walter, to the wall. "Possibly a money launderer, but never had anything pinned on him."

“Carbon shaft, feather fletched arrows. Two in the shoulders to pin him to the wall, one between the eyes.” Sherlock muttered, as if Lestrade had not spoken.

“That was the kill shot.” Simon effused.

“Thank you Simon.” Sherlock snapped, and then whirled again.

“This is the third this month. Why use a bow and arrow?” he murmured.

Silence greeted this question but Sherlock was being rhetorical anyway.

“To murder, obviously.” Lestrade finally snorted.

“Maybe but it’s so bulky, a bow and arrow. You could not hide it whilst carrying it.” Sherlock said, frowning.

“Unless it was a cross bow.” Greg put in.

“Good thinking Lestrade, a small cross bow…”

“Just like Assassins Creed!” John quipped.

“What?"

“Never mind, but really, a cross bow? To hunt and kill three men in London? That’s a bit…well...” John searched for something polite to say something but fell short.

“Two men, one woman.” Sherlock corrected.

“The crossbow was more what I was questioning Sherlock, not the gender of the victims.”

“There was a note this time. Tied to one of the shafts.” Simon said then, holding out a light pink heart shaped piece of paper with a hole punched in it and a red ribbon tied in a bow through it. This was what had fastened the note to the arrow.

Sherlock took the stiff note in his leather gloves fingers and scrutinised it.

“Good quality paper, handmade, toothy, very expensive, came already cut in the heart shape. Should be easy to track.” He made to shove the note into his pocket but Lestrade insisted he hand it over.

“Evidence, Sherlock. You can study it at The Yard if you want to.” He said, bemusedly.

Sherlock sniffed, passed Simon back the note, and then turned back to the body.

“Anything stolen?”

“No, we don’t think robbery was the motive.”

“Hmm…then what. What is the link, why a note now..?”

“Well…the note did say he note said ‘Burn the Hart’” Simon said somberly.

“Jesus!” John spat. “If that bastard is back…”

“Hart the stag John, not heart the organ.” Sherlock said, still staring at the body. “No, Moriarty is dead and gone. Shot himself in the head in front of me. This…this is something else…something…”

“It’s very Robin Hood.” Simon said, causing all three sets of eyes to swing to him. “Arrows, Harts, shooting the rich-“

Sherlock grinned.

“That’s it! That’s it, Simon, yes, very clever!”

He spun suddenly and stalked out of the room.

“John, we have work to do!”

John sighed.

“See you down the yard later Greg?”

“Yeah, sure John. Thanks for coming."

They shook hands and John clumsily tripped over the coffee table in his haste to catch up to Sherlock, spilling the wine onto the carpet. He swore to himself he would get more rest. His legs were exhausted and he knew he should lessen his workload....but there was still so much to do.

Sherlock was waiting by the kerb when John exited the building, smiling that cute smile of his that John adored.

"We need to get to The Yard." was all Sherlock said by way of explanation and all John could do was nod and tag along.

#


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear John, is that a crossbow in your sleeve or are you just happy to see us?

CHAPTER TWO

John was content to stay in Greg’s office as Sherlock happily hunted the whole of the Internet, tracking down the manufacturer of the paper heart that Greg would not let out of his sight. Well, John’s sight, as the DI was out of the office tending to other business. He trusted John to make sure then evidence did not go “walkie’s”.

John stood at the window to Greg’s office, staring down through the partially cracked blinds at the main floor of the Homicide division. It was a slow day, many of the desks were filled with officers doing paperwork on their computers or talking on phones. John reflected on a time where Anderson and Donovan patrolled the floors, making John anxious for his friend Sherlock, and how much all that changed in the two years Sherlock was “Dead”.

Changed, John thought, for the better.

Sherlock and he had talked at length about his time away, the chases, the sleuthing, the calling in marksmen to kill, the one occasion the tall curly haired man had to actually kill a man himself. Along with that there were the side effects of days with no sleep, eating whatever he could find, going weeks without a shower and of course the torture.   
John had listened with a frown on his face the first time Sherlock had explained about the weeks of captivity in Prague, then the month and a half in Serbia. He had been shady on the hands-on killing and cagey about the torture, but eventually after some months the whole story came out. John had yet to see the scars but he knew they were there on his friend’s body. A set of scars John would like to chart with his lips and fingers…

“Handmade paper? Our Robin Hood is a romantic…” Sherlock said to himself, sipping on a luke warm tea John had got him at least 45 minutes ago. The tall man then said nothing further, merely pausing to remove his suit jacket and roll up his sleeves. John knew there were faded marks on his thin wrists from tight metal shackles, he had seen them, but had not asked to get a good look. Sherlock would have declined he was certain. For now. 

John sprang a few times on the balls of his feet, hands in his jacket pockets, then turned away from the window, only to see Sherlock’s eyes on him.

“John…” he said, and he paused. He looked like a dozen things were going on in his head, and John waited, face impassive. Sherlock would get there, he always did. “The paper comes from only one place, a small arts and crafts commune in Scotland…”

Johns face remained neutral. 

“Nobody has made a big purchase of any paper in the last few months but nine months ago a ream of red hand pressed sagewood flower paper went missing. The same paper as our Robin Hood used to leave his note.”

“So he took a bunch of hearts?”

“That’s the thing John, the paper was not pre-cut. It only seemed that way because the heart shape was so precise.”

“Our Robin has steady hands, we already know that from his bow skills.”

“Or he has a scrapbooking cutter in the shape of a large heart.”

John nodded. It was all he could do really.

“The commune takes in artist boarders and has week-long workshops. Perhaps I could call up the guest list. One of those are bound to be our Robin Hood.” Sherlock said, looking at the screen.

John nodded again. He could see the screen reflected in the detectives eyes.

“Perhaps he took Paper Making classes there.” He suggested.

“There was such a class eighteen months ago but it only had one student, a….” Sherlock ran his eyes over the glow of the screen and then looked up. Stared straight into Johns eyes.

John cocked his head. This was it.

“Sherlock?”

“One student called John Watson.”

“Well, nice to know there is more than one of me…”

Sherlock skittered Lestrade's chair back, rounded the desk and charged at John. John was surprised enough to back away but found his exit blocked by the wall next to the window. Sherlock LOOMED, as only Sherlock could, and he stared at John with those alien eyes slitted in suspicion. He put one hand up on the wall beside johns head, effectively blocking his blogger from running to the door, should he be so inclined.

“John HAMISH Watson…” he said in a threatening voice. “How many of THEM are there?”

“I have no idea Sherlock.” John said, calm as you please. “But it sounds as if you are asking if I use bows and arrows to kill people.”

“No John, I am not.”

“Stop looming over me then you great pillock!”

“What I am asking, John Hamish Watson…is what exactly did you get up to when I was gone…?”

John sighed and slumped, hunching over a bit and bringing his pocketed hands in over his belly as if to protect himself. There was a dull soft click.

“Sherlock you have been back for nearly a year”. He said, voice quiet. “I know all about what you were doing, where you were, how you felt, what you ate what you wore. I have asked question after question and you have answered every single one for me.”

 

“Your point?”  
“My point?” John stepped out from under Sherlock’s arm deftly, spun to face him.

“You have been back for a year..."

There was another muffled click and then a device slid from John’s jacket sleeve.

“A whole fucking year Sherlock!..."

A tiny but strong wrist mounted cross bow, lashed tightly to his forearm with a leather gauntlet. 

“And you are only just asking NOW how I survived without you.” He looked up then, blue eyes shiny with grief. “When I thought you were dead.”

John lifted the weapon and pointed it, unloaded, between Sherlock’s eyes.

“John!” Sherlock snapped in surprise, edged with anger, tinged with a tiny bit of fear, even though the thing was not loaded. No arrow.

“The answer?" John gave a humorless laugh. "I've been robbing the rich and giving to the poor.”

John then clicked the device back up his jacket, twirled and was out of the room before Sherlock could even draw breath.  
#


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John...in leather...

CHAPTER THREE

The Bowman stood against the London Skyline, high on the flat roof directly opposite Baker Street. Dressed head to toe in flexible black leather, including boots and hood, he was like a shadow.

Below him, finally, a cab pulled up. From it swirled the graceful figure that was Sherlock Holmes. The tall man paid the cabbie and stalked the few paces to the black front door, removing keys from his pocket as he did so.

The Bowman turned and ran in easy lopes, leaping over gaps between buildings in practiced jumps that after almost two years in a training camp for quiet assassins were second nature to him now. He used various wires and poles to parkour over to the top of Baker Street, using thigh, abdominal and upper body strength that was very well hidden in the day by baggy jeans and knitted jumpers, but well defined in the confines of his leather costume.

Quiet as a cat he shimmied down and onto the ledge of a window of the flat that he knew did not close properly. He pushed the glass pane open and stepped down into the lounge room even as Sherlock, minus his coat, jacket and scarf, turned.

Sherlock tensed a little at the dark figure, eyes hidden by a shadow, mask and hood, which stood in front of the window. Even though he now knew for certain it was John, it was still a John he did not know at all. He stepped forward but The Bowman lifted one gauntleted hand, the one with, Sherlock assumed, had no weapon hidden upon it.

“I am The Bowman.” 

The voice was mechanically changed due to a voice box disguiser hidden at John’s throat. It was ridiculously low and unnatural and Sherlock frowned. He failed to see why John would disguise his own voice now Sherlock knew his secret.

“John, really…” The detective snorted, but John shook his head.

“I am The Bowman.”

Sherlock paused, then nodded once. If this was how John wanted to play it then that was fine. The Bowman was separate from John. Sherlock understood that. He had disassociated a bit during his own time away, who was he to make a fuss over how John dealt with this. But one thing Sherlock wanted to know…

“Why….all of this Jo-Bowman?”

“Why all of what?” Intoned John.

“The killings. Why kill those people?” Sherlock did not want John to be a serial killer, did not want it with all his heart. “Assuming you are not really robbing the rich to give to the poor…”

The Bowman shook his head.

“The web.” He said.

“What web?”

“Moriarty’s.”

“I dealt with them John, that’s why I was away for two whole years! Away from my life, my job, my family…you!” Sherlock’s voice rose. “What do you mean the web!?”

Sherlock had advanced on the Bowman without knowing and only stopped when he met the now clenched outstretched gauntlet. The Bowman was now slightly side on and balanced, ready to fight. Sherlock really didn't want John in this position, fight or flight, but what he said had made no sense.

“Back off detective.” The mechanical voice said, soft but still too deep. It was menacing, sure, but just for a second Sherlock entertained the idea of seeing what John would do. Just for a second…and then he took a step back, hands up to indicate he was unarmed.

“Do excuse my insistence.” He said, mock politely, then dropped his hands to his sides.

The Bowman nodded once, satisfied.

“You took out nearly all of them detective.” The Bowman said then. “Every single operative that fled or was based overseas. I was needed here for the local threads.”

“There were no local threads.” Sherlock argued.

“There is only one left now.”

“There were no local threads! Mycroft told me so--OH!!!” Sherlock gasped then and staggered back a step. “Mycroft….”

“He got you out killing those that had fled.” The Bowman said. “He recruited me to hunt down those left here.”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered as his thoughts raced. He was relieved to know his two years in hell had not been ‘busywork’ but angry that Mycroft had not let him know the other half of the equation, the web’s threads here and the use of John.

“Mycroft saved my life.” The Bowman said then. “John would have…I…would have eaten my gun were it not for Mycroft eventually dragging my drunken arse to the commune in Scotland. When you…died…I did not cope…doing this, becoming The Bowman…gave me the strength to go on. Knowing it was to help you, and then, later, that you were alive….”

Sherlock nodded. He had known nothing of this of course because, as John had said merely an hour or so ago, Sherlock had never asked how John had coped, what he had done, apart from the obvious relationship with Mary and the terrible emotional toll of a baby that was not real. But Sherlock had been there for that. Before….he’d been distracted with his own coming home and readjustment.

“I met Mary there. She was my hand to hand combat instructor. I didn't know she was…part of Moriarty’s web until much later, after she had shot you….”

Sherlock winced at the remembered pain and of the pain in his friends face. He recalled finding out about Mary's deception later, and then having to break it to John in the best way possible…from Mary's own mouth, in a leaky hallway behind a huge façade.

“When did you know…I had not died at St Barts?” Sherlock finally asked.

“The day I finished at the commune. Mycroft came to pick me up, showed me your file, what you had been doing, the wounds you sustained, and the bodies you left in your wake. Three days later you were back and I met up with you in the restaurant…”

Here they both paused. It had been lovely to lay eyes on each other again but Mary had just told John she was pregnant and then, even though John had known his friend still lived, the ghost of Sherlock finally materialised and John had done what came naturally. Tried to throttle Sherlock.

“Now I have cleaned up all but one of Moriarty’s little crime family.”

“Bowman…I can help…” Sherlock offered, but there was something…something his huge mind was screaming at him.

“Not with this one.” The Bowman told him.

“Why not John, it’s been my job too, my life on the line too!”

“This one is Moriarty’s right hand man.” The Bowman said.

“Moran? I killed him in Budapest.” Sherlock insisted.

“You killed his decoy. Moran was here the whole time.” The Bowman told him.

“Here in England?

“In London.” The Bowman said, mechanical voice even flatter. “In my flat…” He added, looking up at Sherlock, the shadow of the hood still over his eyes. 

“John-“ Sherlock tried, staring at the straight line of John’s mouth.

“In my bed…”

“Jesus…” Sherlock whispered. John nodded as Sherlock got it. That was what his brain had been trying to tell him! 

Then The Bowman confirmed it.

“Mary Morstan is Moran, and I plan to kill her tonight.”  
#


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has come to Sherlock for help with this horrible thing he must do.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sherlock could not help the gasp that fell from his lips. 

He knew Mary had been working for some branch of the Serbian Militia but he would never have believed she could have been Moran this whole time. It simply made no sense, although…she did shoot him right next to his heart…

Next to his heart…it had not been meant as a kill shot. He had read her file. She had been an excellent marksman. She would not have missed, unless it had been deliberate.  
And if it had been a deliberate miss then she had meant him to live.

And if she had meant Sherlock to live it made no sense that she would be Moran, because even as the Fake Moran in Budapest had gurgled his life’s blood into the grass he had sworn he would get revenge on Sherlock for killing Moriarty. If he was a fake Moran then he played his part well. 

That sort of tenacity and revenge did not just pouf away, especially when the object of one’s revenge was standing directly in the way of one’s gun…

“No, Bowman, not Mary…” Sherlock said, and John misunderstood

“I know you admired her, in a way, Sherlock but the evidence is right in front of us.”

“No, you misunderstand. The evidence proves it is not Mary. She cannot be Moran!”

“She is, Sherlock.” The Bowman insisted. “I just think you don’t want it to be her, maybe because you missed something, but even if you are wrong about this, you are still the greatest detective in the world.”

Sherlock looked skeptical. With that stupid voice disguiser he could not tell if John was being sarcastic or not. 

All that proved, though, was that perhaps man Sherlock had stabbed in Budapest was merely a pawn. The real Moran could still be out there and Sherlock knew he had to get to him. It was important, it meant that finally Moriarty was defeated.

He had to get The Bowman to allow him to come with him tonight. He began to frantically plan, eyes darting, how could he manipulate John enough to allow him--

The Bowman was laughing, a mechanical, eerie laugh.

"Sherlock...its okay, I actually came here to ask if you would come with me. Not only because you are clever, and that you would love to see the very end of The Web, but because...well...frankly, I would be glad of the company..." John did not want to take down the girl he had loved alone. He needed back up, and there was nobody he trusted more than Sherlock.

Sherlock paused. Then gave a genuinely sunny smile.

"Thank you John." He said.

"You will take my gun though.."

"Pft, John, I am not an imbecile!"

"No, just an idiot." John laughed at the indignant look on Sherlock' s face and turned away to find his gun. Sherlock followed, a little eagerly. 

The endgame was afoot.

#


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is in danger

CHAPTER FIVE

The Bowman showed Sherlock the note he had received. Sagewood red in a heart. Moran had access to the same paper as John at the Scottish retreat, so John knew exactly who had sent it.

I HAVE YOUR PET PATHOLOGIST GIRL IN THE MORGUE AT ST BARTS  
SHE IS SAFE FOR NOW  
COME IF YOU DARE BOWMAN  
M.

“Do you think it’s a clue?” The Bowman asked. This time Sherlock could tell it was sarcasm. The Bowman was busy checking his gun before passing it over to Sherlock.

“How did you get this note Bowman?”

“It was stabbed on a lamppost in front of one of Mycroft’s sneakier cameras. He got it to me through your homeless network.”

Sherlock paused. 

“Mycroft is in this deep, isn't he?” he asked, concerned.

“He is. But he is the safest of us all, I mean, who would dare go after the British Government?”

Sherlock put the gun in his jacket pocket.

“I don’t know, I’d rather like to wring his neck.” He said, under his breath.

“You say that every week Sherlock.” The Bowman said. “Let’s get going. I don’t trust Mary to keep Molls safe, no matter how much she says she will.”

“Good instincts Bowman. I take it we are walking. I cannot leap about like you.”

“You take a cab, I will meet you there.” The Bowman said, and disappeared out the window like a shadow. 

Sherlock sighed, then donned his coat and scarf, his battle dress for what was to come.

#


	6. SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys to the rescue!!

CHAPTER SIX

St Bart’s morgue was quiet as a tomb. Nothing stirred in the darkness. For a while anyway. 

In the dark a girl was sobbing. 

She was tied to a chair between the stainless steel benches of the autopsy room. She had merely meant to stay late and work, as she had been asked to, but now she found herself unwittingly bait for Sherlock Holmes. Or so the woman had told her. And she had known this woman so well, she thought. So well! It hurt her heart to know that she was to actually be the death of Sherlock and, if the woman was in her right mind, the serial killer known as The Bowman too.

If only she had not come in tonight, if only she had ignored them all and gone home to her cosy flat to watch TV and snuggle under a blanket on the couch…

She felt the door open before she heard it. A subtle change in the breath of the room. She sobbed loudly through her wet gag, trying to warn them, trying to get them to stay away.

“Molly?”

Good Christ, it was Sherlock! 

She shook her head frantically, back to the detective as he inched his way in. 

“No no no!” she muffled desperately, tangling her hands in the plastic ties that attached her to the chair, frantically trying to turn her head. “NO!”

But Sherlock came anyway.

He rounded the chair and squat down before her, the whites of his eyes like beacons. The girl sobbed and shook her head as realisation hit the detective. His long white hands removed the gag just as another figure backed past them, pointing a cross bow towards the door.

“Sherlock, please go!” the girl rasped, eyes horrified.

“Mary?” Sherlock asked, feeling suddenly very stupid. 

“She’s coming!” Mary sobbed.

“Mary?” Came the weirdly distorted voice of The Bowman through his voice disguiser. A hooded masked face stared down at Mary Morstasn, tied to the chair in the middle of a room they fully expected to find Molly Hooper in.

“She’s coming!” Mary repeated frantically, struggling in her bonds. "Shes coming, please go!!!"

“She’s already here.” Came another voice from the doorway as the lights flickered on to glare whitely on a most unexpected scene.

#


	7. SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty!!!!

CHAPTER SEVEN

Blinking in the sudden glare, Sherlock surged to his feet, aiming John’s gun at the white coated figure in the doorway. The Bowman, too, aimed his crossbow there.

“Molly….?” Sherlock choked, puzzled, dropping the gun just a bit.

“Hello Sherlock.” Came the voice of Molly Hooper. “I see you have brought a friend. I was coming for you next Bowman. Together you both killed all my favorite people, including darling Richard.”

“Molly…Hooper?” Came the disquietingly monotonic voice of The Bowman.

Molly mock bowed her head, grinning.

“Molly Hooper.” She agreed. “But I think you know me more as Professor Moriarty.”

Mary moaned and began to cry. Sherlock was too stunned to do anything, but The Bowman inched forward, crossbow at the ready.

“Uh uh Mister Bowman.” Molly said, bringing up her hand to show an object clutched in it. A dead man’s switch, which implied an explosive device somewhere nearby.

“Molly, why…?” Sherlock whispered, gun now a bit shaky. He was thinking of dear sweet Molly the Morgue Pathologist who helped him all the time, had a crush on him and had dated the World’s Greatest criminal and made him love cats and watch Glee…or wait, the World’s Greatest Criminal already loved cats and watched Glee…Molly was Moriarty!

“Richard Brook was Moriarty!” He cried suddenly.

“No, Richard brook was an actor.” Molly said kindly.

“All these years….all these years Molly!” The Bowman's disguised voice said.

“Why Bowman, it sounds as if you know me personally.”

The Bowman paused, and then flung back the hood and mask that disguised him against the world. Molly’s eyes widened and she barked out a laugh.

“John Watson! Of course!" She said, then stared at Mary. "Moran, you should have said you had trained The Bowman in your little Scottish Sanctuary.” 

“I didn't know! I swear!” Mary all but screamed, struggling. At least one thing had been cleared up. Mary Morstan was indeed Moran.

“Oh don’t fuss Moran, I sent you there to keep an eye on John, keep him strong to recruit him to my web.” Molly said, still smiling. “I had such plans for you John…such wonderful plans! However, it seems I underestimated you Doctor Watson.”

“People usually do.” Sherlock snapped, still taking in the new information.

“I am used to that myself.” Molly nodded, and they all knew that everyone in the room had surmised early on that Molly was a mousey little science geek who would squeak at the slightest boo. Nobody, nobody, not even the British Government, had known who she really was.

“You helped me fake my death!” Sherlock exclaimed. How had he not known…not known who Molly really was?

“Well, you did kindly rid me of Richard.” Molly said. “He was sweet, but so clingy!”

“I was killing your men, overseas, and you allowed it!” Sherlock said then.

“All my best were left here with me, and it kept you busy. I had no idea Mycroft accidentally created The Bowman. I am not used to being less than seven steps in front. Luckily, I always have a plan B.”

Molly crossed the room and dragged out first one morgue drawer and then another. Tied to each was a human, gagged and strapped in Semtex. At least now they knew where the explosives were. 

“Say hello boys, don’t be rude.” Molly said to the near-frozen men in the drawers. Two sets of eyes swiveled to the side to look at John, Sherlock and the trussed up Moran. You did not need to be Sherlock Holmes to recognise the faces those eyes belonged to, even if one set, the brown ones, were bruised and the face above the tight gagged cut and lacerated. Greg had put up a fight for sure. Mycroft merely looked bored, but Sherlock could see the fear just below the surface.

“Come full circle haven’t we?” Molly smiled. “Remember, I promised to burn out your heart. I crossed off your elderly Landlady and added your brother on my kill list simply for the thrill of seeing your face like this.Sherlock. I am extra glad I did, now I know Mycroft made The Bowman and tried to set him up as my executioner.”

Molly turned then, eyeing the room with a face filled with glee.

“I had other plans for John, but he has kindly made an appearance here tonight.”

She walked forward.

“Now, the chickens have some home to the roof. Disarm yourself boys. I've won.”

John and Sherlock paused. Molly took the opportunity to bring out a small hand gun and shoot Moran in the head. It was an excellent shot, and the silencer made it merely sound like a dart rather than a bullet. Mary was dead before her head even fell forward, skull ruined by the bullets trajectory.

Sherlock instantly laid his gun on the ground and kicked it to Molly, hands up. John unclipped his ingenious little cross bow and tossed it to the ground at Molly’s feet.

“Thank you boys.” She smiled sweetly, then giggled as John felt Moran's neck for a pulse. John’s face went blank when he found no sign of life.

“Step forward, turn around, kneel, hands on the back of your heads.” Molly said then, still smiling happily as if this were the best day of her life.

Slowly, Sherlock and John did as Molly had asked and Molly giggled.

“How often I have imagined you at my feet like this Sherlock, doing my bidding.” Molly whispered into Sherlock’s ear, gun barrel pressed to his neck. “The filthy things I would have had you do…”

Sherlock said nothing, merely closed his eyes, thinking, thinking....

He didn't have to think long before all hell broke loose….

#


	8. EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pollution, all around, sometimes up and sometimes down but always around. We're both on different buses pollution, but we are both using petrol...BOMBS!!

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was John Watson who moved first. 

He stood with lightning speed, grabbing at the Madwoman’s wrist. It was the one attached to the hand with the thumb on the switch. He rammed the top of his head into the bottom of Molly’s chin as hard as he could. Her jaw slammed shut with an almighty meaty click, shattering bone and teeth and nearly slicing her tongue off. She screamed as blood erupted from her mouth. The hand holding the deadman’s switch went loose and the box fell towards the ground. Sherlock scooped it up and frantically pressed the red switch down again, shocked that there had been no explosion. 

Molly was screaming now, holding her ruined jaw and writhing on the ground in agony. John had no compunction at all in slamming his boot heel onto the woman’s temple, the satisfaction of the echoing thump and the sudden silence after more than making up for the fact he was rendering unconscious someone he had dearly loved until ten minutes before.

In the sudden silence John and Sherlock stared at each other.

Then, the beeps started and the men in the morgue drawers began to struggle, thumping against the wooden sides with feet and elbows.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock screamed, leaping to his brother’s side. John checked Molly’s pulse, thready but strong, rolled her into recovery position and left her. He, too, went to Mycroft’s side.

There, in the drawers of both men, was an electronic clock counting down from 30, now 29, now 28…

“God, how do we stop this!?” Sherlock cried, moving his long fingers over the wires and Semtex strapped to his brother’s body. Mycroft was frantically muffling into his gag and John slipped it from the man’s mouth

“Sherlock…SHERLOCK!” Mycroft cried, making his brother look at him. “Cut Gregory free please…” Sherlock looked to John, who scooped to pick up his crossbow, removed the arrow and began to saw it the plastic ties that held Greg down. Sherlock still followed the wires with his sensitive fingers. It was no use, he had no idea how to stop the countdown. 

John had a similar issue with the box attached to Greg, which fell to the floor, attached to wires, once Greg was free to sit up and grab Mycroft’s hand. He removed his gag with the other.

“Hold fast Mycroft. This is fine, this is good, and we will be okay.”

19…18…17…

“Christ, I don’t know how to stop this!” Sherlock hissed

“Off switch?” John asked tightly.

“There’s no off switch, this is not a game John!” Sherlock screamed, tugging at wires now.

“Did you check for an off switch, you great pillock?”

“There IS NO OFF SWITCH!!!!!” Sherlock’s voice was high pitched with panic.

11…10...09…

“Gregory…run, please…” Mycroft whispered to Greg.

“Not a chance Myc, I just found you, I won’t leave you now.” Greg gave a small smile.

“Touching, but now is not the time!” Sherlock snapped.

“There is no time but now.” Greg whispered, leaning forward to kiss Mycroft as the timer reached 5...

“Sherlock!” John said urgently, then repeated it. “SHERLOCK!”

“I WILL NOT LEAVE MY BROTHER!” Sherlock screamed, frantically tearing at the wires. It made no difference now, he was sure whatever he did would end in fire and death. He was aware of his own sobs, his desperation, and his heartbeat as loud as bongo drums in his ears.

Then he was aware of something else. 

Silence.

Was he dead already? Was Mycroft? Greg? John?

“Sherlock…” Came John’s soft voice. Sherlock opened eyes he had not known he had squeezed shut to focus on the hand he was clutching with both of his hands around Mycroft’s hand. White with lack of blood, so hard was he clutching. 

Not dead…

He lifted his head to see Greg and Mycroft staring at him, Greg with a tiny smile, Mycroft in blatant surprise. Then he lifted his eyes further to see John, with a silver wire and switch in his hand. He thrust it forward.

“Off switch.” He said quietly.

“Oh fuck…fuckfuckfuck thank all the Gods!!” Sherlock babbled, then fell forward to hold his brother tightly to him.   
#


	9. NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of death

CHAPTER NINE

The Criminal mastermind known as Moriarty died in Barts later that night from a cerebral hemorrhage caused directly from John's boot. John was unconcerned. He had already retained fond memories of Molly, regardless of her motives. The person he killed was Moriarty, not Molly.

Sherlock and he went home to shower, sleep and eat, in that order.

By mutual agreement the next afternoon they sat down to a late lunch of sandwiches made by Hudders. 

They remained tight lipped about the past few days.

Then Mycroft Holmes arrived, and the day got tense.

#


	10. TEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> confession!!!

CHAPTER TEN

Firstly, he thanked John and Sherlock for not only saving his life but his new lover Greg’s life too. John merely nodded. He was wary of Mycroft now he knew the man had secrets and had played with John’s life like he was a chess piece. Not a pawn as such, but maybe a rook. 

And of course, the elephant in the room was Sherlock’s distress at facing his brother’s death, much as Sherlock wanted everyone to forget, nobody could. John had never seen Sherlock so distraught. It was scary the depth of emotions that surfaced. Mycroft had returned the same feelings before the police and ambulance had arrived, holding Sherlock to him and patting him slowly on the back, but the instant others were in the room he had put his Mycroft mask on.

“So…you and Greg…how long?” John finally asked.

“Three months.” Mycroft said. 

“He’s mellowed you.” Sherlock said, and Mycroft merely inclined his head in a bow, face still impassive.

“The Iceman has met his blow torch.” John said. “How is he?”

“He is at home, resting. His cheekbone was cracked in the scuffle. Miss Morstan packed quite a punch getting him into the Morgue, and Greg was reticent to punch a woman, no matter how professionally she was hitting him.”

John nodded. He tried hard not to think about Mary. Moran. She had been Moriarty’s right hand man after all. Her lies, her manipulation, even the false pregnancy, all to do with following the orders of a madwoman. Keeping John keen to recruit into her own vicious web. He was lucky, he supposed, that Mycroft had got to him first. Kept him focused on the side of good. Gave him a super-hero identity he could direct to helping Sherlock.

He was terrified that had he not, he would be as dead as both Mary and Moriarty, and at the hands of the man he loved with all his heart.

“John…I am very thankful you were there last night. I…am afraid I may have used you dreadfully and Greg has told me one does not do that to friends.” Mycroft went on.

“Ha!” Sherlock snorted. “Even I kn, w that brother dear.”

“Mycroft, it’s all good. It’s all fine.” John said, slowly. He was tired. He had a headache.

“The Bowman…has he retired..?” Mycroft asked then. Sherlock leaped to his feet, causing Mycroft to surge to his in defense.

“Mycroft, I cannot believe you want to keep using John after you just explained you were told not to!” The detective spat.

“Sherlock, it’s merely an inquiry.”

“To which if he said ‘no’ you may have a ‘few little jobs’ for The Bowman to do!” Sherlock used his fingers as parentheses.

“There are a few upper corporate types who need a scare yes, and The Bowman could do it very well. He would save me months of Intel and legwork.”

“Mycroft, you truly are a leech!”

“I know where my talents lie and when to outsource Sherlock, it’s not a crime.”

“It is if John gets killed you colossal prick!”

“Sherlock, I merely—“

“No.” John suddenly said, aware the brothers had probably forgotten he even existed as they argued. Both sets of Holmsian eyes turned to him. “No. He’s not retired. He’s off for a week or so, but no…The Bowman would be happy for the work.”

The silence was drawn out. Sherlock looked angry and Mycroft looked faintly relieved. Then the elder Holmes nodded, turning away.

“I will be in contact.” Was all he said.

“Give Greg our best.” John said to the elder Holmes retreating back. Mycroft paused, nodded once, and then continued out and down the stairs. He could be heard bidding Hudders farewell and soon after the sound of his town car pulling away.

Sherlock turned to John.

“John…tell me everything about the time I was away.” He said, then added a genuine “Please?”

“No.” John said, heaving himself wearily out of his chair and sweeping his too long hair from his eyes. “I can’t. I don’t want to. There is too much…Mary in that story.”

“You loved her.” Sherlock stated.

“No, Sherlock, that’s the thing.” John said, turning to face his friend. “She taught me combat skills, we dated, got engaged, I thought we had made a baby together.” John looked down at his feet, seeing Mary's face. “I had a deep respect for her skills then, and later, I grew to despise her. But I never loved her, I don’t think I even liked her very much.” 

“John—“

“It was too late. I was already in love with you."

#


	11. ELEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kISSIES!!!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sherlock was stunned so quickly that his brain went off line. He had no idea how long he had stood there trying to think in an orderly fashion. By the time he became aware of his surroundings again John had gone. 

“Oh…the talk thing, yes!” Sherlock said to himself, rousing his body to walk forward, up the stairs to John’s room. 

The light was on. 

He knocked.

“Sherlock…I…not now, okay? Let me rest before we…before you give me the speech…” Came John's voice through the door.

“The speech?” Sherlock asked.

“’Married to your work’.” John quoted.

“Oh…” Sherlock remembered that speech well. At the time he had not wanted the emotional entanglements a relationship brought with it then. It was impossible to stop though. John Watson was made to love and Sherlock was the lucky bastard who had fallen hard for him.

“Let me in John, please.”

“Your manners scare me Sherlock.”

“My manners?”

“That’s two pleases just tonight. Usually it’s just to beg fags off me. Now I think you really mean it.”

“I do, actually John.” Sherlock admitted. 

There was a pause.

“The door is open.”

Sherlock did not hesitate. He turned the knob, pressed the door open and stepped inside.

John had his back to him, staring into the yellow streetlight out of his window, ramrod straight in his sleep trousers and white cotton T-shirt. Sherlock could see how buff his friend had gotten after three years of training and then being The Bowman. He was all hard flesh and muscle, and flexible enough to leap over roofs like a European Parkour Champion. 

Sherlock well recalled how gorgeous his friend looked in his all leather costume too. Sherlock knew he should be above such pettiness but his lizard brain just wanted to lick John Watson's Biceps and call him Daddy.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was husky. He knew it was with lust but he tried to pretend he had a cough. John about-turned to face him, hands behind his back. This was not good. He had resorted to military stance, a reflex he only did when he felt threatened. Sherlock was no threat to John. In fact, his treacherous Hind brain supplied, he would find it rather delicious if John were a threat to him. Physically. Overpowering. Dominating…Christ, could he not control his lust for three minutes..!

“Sherlock, it’s okay. I had a moment. I am okay now.” John said, words clipped. He was protecting himself.

“You said you were in love with me.” Sherlock stated, surprised at how easy that came out.

“Am. I am in love with you Sherlock.” John said, standing even impossibly straighter, staring over Sherlock’s shoulder at a bit of peeling wallpaper. “Nothing need change. I have been in love with you for years and we have managed.”

“Years?”

“Since the cabbie.”

“The cabbie!” Sherlock exclaimed. John lifted his chin in defiance, a red flush over his cheeks.

“I told you, years.” He said, voice small, still looking anywhere but at Sherlock. ”You never knew. It’s okay. We can carry on as we did before or...I can leave, if that makes it easier for you.”

Sherlock eyes slitted.

“I don’t want you to leave. I only just got you back.”

“You have been back a year Sherlock.”

“After two years of hell, John.” Sherlock said, his voice quiet. John dropped his head to look at Sherlock in surprise.

“Yes, I know Sherlock. You told me. I have seen the scars at your wrists.”

“John, you have to know…” Sherlock stepped forward, trying to form words which all crowded his forehead in the sudden urge to escape. 

“Oh Gods, know what Sherlock…?” John all but moaned in fear. What fresh hell….?

“No, No…” Sherlock said, suddenly reaching out to grab John by his stunningly wonderfully large upper arms. “It was you, John. Coming home to you…”

“Uh?” John said, intelligently. Sherlock was touching him. Deliberately.

“I would picture your face John.” Sherlock said, voice lowered by at least an octave. Now was the time for truth, if there ever was one. “It was all I could recall most of the time, especially when I was pass-out hungry, or alone, cold or…in a cell, being hurt…the way you smelled, your smile, that look you get when I do something amazing…”

John gave him a quick smile but he was still tense under Sherlock’s hands.

“It was sometime after the first time I was captured that I realised I was half in love with you. It was only later, during the professional torturing, that I realised it was more than half. John, I am in love with you too. Very much so.”

“Oh…” was all John could say to that. He was frozen to the spot, his body aware of the heat of Sherlock’s grip, the fresh smell of him, and the pounding pulse in a neck he wanted so much to bite and lick and taste…

“So it is more than okay for you to be in love with me, because I return the sentiment.” Sherlock said then, and swallowed. Slowly.

“Your move John Watson…” he said then, with such a lustful deep whisper in his voice that John sighed and shuddered, and then moved his mouth up to finally passionately kiss Sherlock Holmes.

#


	12. TWELVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut smuttedy smut smut!

CHAPTER TWELVE

The kiss set them both on fire straight away. John could not believe how hot Sherlock’s lips were, and Sherlock was taken aback by how deceptively lush Johns mouth was. And his tongue, oh Gods, it sent shivers snaking down his veins to lodge deep in his abdomen.

John took over the kiss, as Sherlock rather hoped he would. He snaked his muscular arms around Sherlock’s upper body, pinning his arms and making it impossible not to just submit to wonderful wet heat of John’s mouth. His kisses were deep, rough, strong, and full of rippling tongue. Sherlock’s brain whimpered in glee, even as he felt himself pushed back against the side of the bed.

They fell in a tangle of John’s limbs, Sherlock’s being made useless by the bands of steel he knew were Johns arms. Christ, it felt magnificent to give into urges as base as this, with trust and lust thrown in. It had never been like this, John was perfect, perfect!

Sherlock heard himself moan and John squeezed him closer in response. When Sherlock’s head tipped back to allow John to kiss him deeper, wetter, John’s arms tightened impossibly closer, and Sherlock could feel his breath leaving his chest. It felt glorious. He need never breathe again!

John was groaning now too, undulating against Sherlock’s captive body. He had known, deep down, that Sherlock would love to give himself over like this to the one person he could trust, him, John Watson. John just knew it. He didn't feel the need to go softly, ask permission, and back off just in case he did not like it. Sherlock’s very molecules were begging even as his lips wreaked havoc on his own mouth, that perfect bow made for kissing rough like this, taking and tasting and owning!

John loosened his grip around Sherlock’s torso, struggled to get his arms free and, without breaking the deep and filthy kisses he was forcing on Sherlock, took those scarred and deceptively strong wrists in his hands and pinned them to the mattress above the detectives head. 

The moan Sherlock let loose was primal, and he arched into John, struggling a little to test the power in Johns arms, realising he was safely held, pinned beneath his doctor, a slab for him to use as he would. Sherlock felt his lips released and he heard his own voice make Johns name fall from his swollen mouth, and pleases and swearing and calling on Gods, and Johns teeth were in his neck, not too gently.

“Oh, yes, please!” Sherlock whispered roughly, arching his neck to thrust his throat into John’s mouth. John merely bit harder, licking and sucking, getting Sherlock’s skin bruised and red and wet.

John’s hard cock assaulted the front of Sherlock’s trousers, finding the detectives answering erection begging for friction and attention. John growled, lifting his chest up off Sherlock to rub his cloth covered cock against Sherlock’s hard member, forehead pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes riveted by the sight of his fully clothed cock assaulting Sherlock’s very swollen prick in those oh-so-perfect trousers.

There was nothing John wanted more than to see those expensive trousers ruined because Sherlock could not control himself.

He rolled himself flat onto Sherlock, kicking the detective’s legs apart to more easily rub himself against the front of his detective. Sherlock moaned, lifting his hips in answer to John’s thrusts, beautifully helpless under Johns attack. He clutched Sherlock’s wrists tighter to the bed and lifted his chest agait. He stared down into Sherlock’s face, flushed and debauched and so very desperate. So pretty in his submission John could barely control himself.

“Can you feel me Sherlock?” He whispered, riding his cock along Sherlock’s own.

“Oh Christ yes John!” Sherlock moaned, voice panting and broken.

“You like that yeah?” John said, watching Sherlock’s face as he rammed a bit harder. Sherlock arched again, fighting the pinning but not wanting to escape, not ever.

“John, please, please, oh please!” He begged, head rolling, showing John his ruined throat.

“You filthy thing, in your trousers, like a schoolboy?” John asked, in mock disgust.

“Oh anything John please, just…make it stop, make it last, make me, make me!” Sherlock begged.

John leaned down, mercilessly thrusting, and whispered directly into Sherlock’s ear.

“Come for me my little slut”

“Oh Jooooohhhhhhhnnnnnnn!!!” poor Sherlock moaned and began to tremble, eyes rolling back in his head as he stuttered and shook, come spurting from his cock and into his pants. How had John known exactly what words to use?

“Christ Sherlock yes Christ you beautiful thing...” John whispered, and held Sherlock tight as he lost himself in pleasure.

#


	13. THIRTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks things

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Christ John, you could snap me in half like a twig!” Sherlock mentioned, half an hour later when they had dragged themselves into a shared shower.

John looked up from shampooing his hair to see Sherlock appraising his compact and super buff contours. He grinned.

“Tell me that doesn't excite you!”

Sherlock grinned, and then frowned. “How did I not know?”

“That I was a bit kinky? I thought maybe you may have deduced it. Never kept a girlfriend or a boyfriend very long once I asked them to be helpless under my grip…”

“Boyfriends?”

“A few. I liked the challenge, a possible take down.”

“Oh!” Sherlock choked as he sucked in a sudden gust of spray, he inhaled so fast. He coughed and John laughed at him.

“Like that idea do you?”

Sherlock merely nodded, eyes wide on John. He knew he did not need to explain to John his need to give up power any more than John needed to explain to Sherlock his need to dominate. John crowded Sherlock against the shower wall, one arm against the tiles, the other stroking Sherlock’s face.

“You want me to chase you Sherlock? Catch you? Take you?”

Sherlock swallowed.

“Yes, John.”

“A good long chase I think. In the woods, nowhere to hide, nowhere safe…”

Sherlock trembled.

“Yes John.” He whispered.

“Oh I like this ‘yes John’ Sherlock.” John whispered then, leaning his hot, hard, muscular soaking body onto Sherlock’s, running his thumb under one of Sherlock’s eyes, along the glorious plane of his cheekbone. “Say it again.”

“Yes John”

“Say it softer.”

“Yes John.” Sherlock whispered, staring into Johns eyes.

“Kiss me” John demanded.

Sherlock instant obeyed, closing his eyes, his pliant lips moving softly under John’s rougher ones and all was suddenly right with the world. John let Sherlock go and the taller man stared, eyes lidded, into Johns eyes.

“In this take down scenario John…”

“Mmm..?”

“Could you be The Bowman? Please? In the leather? The hood?”

“Oh love, you only have to ask…”  
#


	14. FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lestrade, face a pretty mottled swirl of bruises from Mary's attack and kidnapping, stared at John and Sherlock over his desk. 

“I have yet to thank you for rescuing us.” The silver haired man said gravely. “I would have been shattered to lose Myc so soon, as well as my own life, and we know London would fall without Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

Sherlock nodded, distracted, but John was staring at Greg with eyes gone hard, flashed with determination.

“What are you going to do about The Bowman?” He asked. Now Greg knew who John was, would he arrest him? He did, after all, kill three people…four, now, counting Moriarty.

“Mycroft told me everything John.” Greg said, voice softer. He had Sherlock’s attention now. “How you were slowly drinking yourself to an aneurysm after this one’s death” he nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “How he offered you hope in Scotland, how well you did, and then the turncoat that was Mary, the false baby….and those people The Bowman killed needed to be swept under the carpet…so no, John, I will not arrest The Bowman for past deeds.”

“Mycroft said he has more jobs for me…The Bowman.” John said.

“Well you obviously cannot do it now, Lestrade would have to arrest you!” Sherlock interjected, not without some relief.

“We could come to some agreement I am sure.” Lestrade said. “I owe The Bowman my life, Mycroft’s life, Sherlock’s life and not to mention Doctor John Watson's. If The Bowman had not intervened when he did, all four of us would be dead.”

John nodded. He admired how Greg kept John and The Bowman separate.

“And Myc explained how he needs someone like The Bowman.”

“So you are in Mycroft’s pocket too, Geoff?”

“Greg. And yes. I like your brother’s pocket. It’s warm. Deep. Satisfying...”

“Oh God please stop!” Sherlock put his hands over his ears and began to hum in an exaggerated way. Greg grinned like a Cheshire cat and John could not help but join in.  
“Seems we are all Mycroft’s running dogs.” He said then, over Sherlock’s humming.

“Seems we are.” Greg said.

“What could possibly go wrong?”

“Oh…everything and nothing John. Besides, I quite like having a super hero to call my own. I am like J Jonah Jameson of the Daily Planet and The Bowman is my Superman.”

“And I am your Clark Kent?” John asked.

“That makes Sherlock Lois Lane.”

An infuriated splutter put an end to Sherlock’s humming.  
#


	15. FIFTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moar smut

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Christ your skin Sherlock, its perfect…” John whispered into Sherlock’s belly. They were naked, in Sherlock’s bed, the yellow lamp the only light. 

Sherlock shook his head, even as he writhed beneath Johns lips.

“Not perfect John. The scars...”

“Mm mm, silly man, no, the scars are part of your story…but no, I meant it’s so soft, like velvet.” John murmured, holding Sherlock’s hips with his muscular hands. Sherlock was not shackled but he still felt helpless. John did that to him, took away his fight, made him just feel.

Johns tongue was working at his belly skin lightly, lips barely touching, making the most glorious sounds of appreciation, and Sherlock wondered why this made him feel so cherished. John was so dominant, this caring softness should not be so Toppy!

Sherlock held tightly to the bedframe with his fingers, imagining what it would be like to be cuffed with leather, or silk strips, or Gods help him, rough rope…just not shackles, never shackles.

His lips, neck and nipples were stinging and red from John’s rough exploration but now, as John had shimmed lower between the detectives long legs, the sensation just added to the overall feeling of being wonderfully used and present. This was submission at its most sublime. Sure, Sherlock loved rough, suspected he would love to be taken and fucked hard by his Doctor, but this…this was all feeling and it shattered him just as much as he imagined a hard, rough fuck would. He’d had sex before with other men, Sherlock was gay through and through, but most of those were when he was high or too inexperienced to ask for what he needed. 

It seemed the stories were true. Love made the sex better. Or at least the rutting and teasing…and once they had finally had sex, he was sure it would be amazing!

John had finally reached Sherlock’s hard, wanting cock. He had been aware of his own twitching member for some time but it was just the background ache, until John breathed on it and then...it jumped for attention!

“Mm, lovely...” John murmured, voice low and almost purring.

“Please!” Sherlock hissed softly.

“Oh I know what you want Sherlock, no need to beg.”

Sherlock paused. Did that mean John did not want him to beg, or did it mean the opposite? He was momentarily confused, until Johns mouth paused, open so very slightly, against his pulsing frenulum.

“So pretty Sherlock.” Came Johns quiet voice, and his exhalation rippled over the head of Sherlock’s cock. 

“Christ!” Sherlock exclaimed, arching his back and spreading his legs. His head fell back, exposing his throat as he exclaimed. He wanted to thrust his cock into the wet heat of John’s mouth but John’s lips were almost closed and oh, how frustrating that was! His hips moved helplessly, and he was shocked when his undulations met with Johns peaked tongue. Its wet heat darted across Sherlock’s cock head, a mere flicker, and was gone.

“Christ John!”

“So lovely.” John said, his voice still quiet as a whisper, but deep, rough. Once again, his breath wove its way over the now very wet head of Sherlock’s cock, causing the detective to whimper, actually whimper, and bury his eyes against the crook of his arm.

“So perfect, I could watch you for hours.” John told him languidly.

Sherlock gasped.

“Please no John, I can’t last!” He begged desperately, removing his eyes from his arm and staring down at John. He was surprised to see Johns eyes meeting his, over the top of his pink cock and up over his belly and chest. Gods, wasn't that hot, to see that expression on Johns face, intense, fierce, loving…oh dear Lord!  
“What’s the matter Sherlock?”

Sherlock whimpered. Again. Moved his cock an inch against John’s lips. Those perfect lips that had formed the word ‘Sherlock’ a hundred billion times but never, until then, had the shape of his own name on them nearly made him come.

“I need…” he tried, rubbing his cheek over his arm, eyes not leaving Johns. He whimpered. Again. Like a lost puppy. “John, I need…”

“I would very much like to hear what you need.” John said, once again allowing his lips to brush against the now soaked head of Sherlock’s cock.  
Sherlock made a kind of gaspy moany whimper then.

“Gods John, your mouth, please, your mouth!”

“My mouth Sherlock?” John asked, eyes now down on the cock beneath his lips. He kissed it lightly a few times, and gave it a few tiny licks.

“Gods John!” poor Sherlock was writhing now, legs wider still, holding onto the bedframe lest he fly off the bed. John used his tongue to swirl gently over the swollen head of his cock. Sherlock all but yelped.

“Please John!"

“Please John what?” John asked, and Sherlock was bowled over by just how dirty John saying his very own name was. Such a common name but now, it was a magical name, a hot name, the name of the man he loved.

“Gods John, you know what I want!!!” Sherlock cried. 

“I’m not sure I do.” John told him, lapping at Sherlock’s frenulum now, driving the detective wild.

“You do, you do, Christ John, give it to me!”

“Mmmmmm, no, still not very sure…” John teased, now using the very flat of his tongue to lap longer strokes.

“Oh Gods oh Gods John…John!”

“Yes, my Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s resolve burst, and a filthy sentence he thought he would never ever say ripped from his throat, so crazily turned on and desperate was he.

“SUCK ME OFF JOHN PLEASE!” He sobbed, hiding his face again “PLEASE! PLEASE!”

A tight wet heat engulfed his cock and sucked, hard, just once, and poor Sherlock screamed in pleasure as balls erupted and his come spurted down his lover’s throat in wave after wave of incredible pleasure.  
#


End file.
